


5 Snapshots in the Life and Times of Director and Mrs. Fury

by amusewithaview



Series: Farcy: a love story [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Biracial Baby, Coulson is Not a Robot, Crack, Crack Pairing, Darcy is her protegee, Darcy's Eggo is Prego, Drunkeness Is Not a Life Choice, EVEN THE BRAIN-MELTY ONES, F/M, Gratuitous Nerdery, Gratuitous Star Trek References, Kid Fic, Matchmaking, Noodle Incidents Galore, PLANANIGANS, SHIP DARCY WITH ALL THE THINGS, SPAWN OF FURY, fun with portmanteau couple-names, natasha is a bamf, so much crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:33:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1)  In which Darcy (triumphantly) ends the prank war Clint (foolishly) began.<br/>2)  In which Nick is convinced of something.  (She didn't have to try that hard.)  (She never does.)<br/>3)  When Coulson met (Mrs.) Fury.  (Don't worry, nobody fakes an orgasm.)  (Possible nerdgasm.)<br/>4.3)  How Darcy <i>persuaded</i> Nick to read bedtime stories to Clint.  (Split into two, no, THREE parts.)<br/>4.6)  In which girls rule and boys drool (over other boys).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prank War, the Troll, and a Bedtime Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Due to _overwhelmingly_ positive response, I will be continuing this. I'm brainstorming a sequel to "My Mama Would Be So Ashamed", tentatively titled "How Darcy Got Clearance and Coulson Got Sitter Duty". While _that_ pounds itself out in my head, here's a few little glimpses of (possible) futures.
> 
> It's crack, guys. _So much crack_.

Clint stared at his boss in confusion as the man slowly folded his black trench coat, draping it carefully over the wooden chair before settling into it next to the agent's hospital bed. He hadn't been expecting _Fury_ of all people to visit him, especially not this late at night, _after_ he had already debriefed him. He fought the urge to straighten his spine and salute because, well, frankly his ribs really couldn't take it right now.

The Director stared at him over steepled fingers until Clint finally cracked: "Uh, sir?"

“I would like you to know,” Fury said, deadly calm, “that my wife is the one who put me up to this.”

Then he pulled out a thin book and began to read.

…

Darcy was covering her mouth with both hands, unsuccessfully trying to stifle her laughter. When her eyes met Tony's they both just absolutely lost it. Ten minutes later, they were lying on the ground, still crying and wheezing. Every time the laughter started to peter out, they'd look at each other, or at the view screen – still paused on Clint's terrified face – and start up again.

“The part – with the _bear_...” Tony choked out, still giggling.

“Oh _god_ , Clint's _face_ at the 'my darling'!”

They dissolved into another round of laughter.

“You – you've recorded this, right?”

“It's going in my special collection.”

“Hah, well, so long as it makes the rounds _quietly_ , wouldn't want the hubby's authority undermined.”

Tony glanced back at the screen, “Honestly, I don't think it could. I've seen less Killing Intent in actual _battles_.” He fiddled with the controls for a few minutes, cropping the video here, changing the camera angle there, and adding an underlying music track that wouldn't be out of place coming from a children's mobile. Finally, he had to ask: “How'd you get him to go along with it?”

Darcy peered at him over the top of her glasses, “Do you _really_ wanna know?”

Tony flinched, losing a little of the flush that laughter had given him. “...no.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought.”

…

One week later, Clint was out of medical and avoiding Darcy like the plague. She finally cornered him in the hallway outside Coulson's office, making sure to be there when she knew _he_ would _have_ to give his report on his medical-leave status. Sometimes it paid to be the one in charge of everyone's schedules, well, it _always_ paid, but sometimes the best perks of the job had nothing whatsoever to do with money.

He paled at the sight of her: “You are _evil_.”

“Aw, you didn't like my get-well-soon present?”

“ _Evil!_ ”

Darcy smirked, “Do you yield?”

He scowled at her, jaw working silently for a moment before his shoulders slumped, “Yeah.”

“Hah! _Who's_ the woman, _I'm_ the woman!” Darcy did an abbreviated version of her victory dance around Clint.

“Bringing Fury in was dirty pool.”

“Dude, you had Natasha _stake out my bathroom_.”

“Oh yeah, that was a good one!” He sighed, “I've learned my lesson, Mrs. Fury.”

She waited until he was just about to enter Coulson's office, then asked, “What was the worst part?”

“Honestly?” He shuddered, “He, uh, read it with so much _enthusiasm_.”

“You should see him read _Good Night, Moon_.”

Clint jerked as if shot, “You _wouldn't_.”

Darcy just smiled at him.

He watched her whistle her way down the hall, “Swear to god, sometimes that woman's scarier than the director.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bedtime story Director Fury reads to Agent Barton is an actual book (though one _not_ for children) called, "Go the Fuck to Sleep." If you would like to see/hear it read by Samuel L. Jackson, follow the link below... and then maybe come read the story again. It might be funnier, I dunno.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CseO1XRYs9I


	2. This isn't Secretary, but sometimes Darcy likes to pretend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small scene, will probably slot into the over-arching plot I'm building in my head.

“ _No_ ,” Director Nicholas Fury said, in his most authoritative voice.

“Give me one good reason why _not_ ,” said his wife, who was (sadly) immune to the Voice.

“I'll give you five! Stark, Banner, Barton, my _sanity_ and our _marriage_.”

Darcy narrowed her eyes at him. “Stark is negated by Pepper, Barton by Romanov and his own good sense, and Banner must have it all under control if,” she leaned forward and tapped one of the open files on his desk, “you're pushing to allocate him lab space in the same _hemisphere_ as Tony Stark, let alone the same _room_.”

“Much as it pains me to say it, Stark seems to be a...stabilizing influence on Banner.”

She quirked a brow, “Pains you, huh?”

He tapped a finger to his heart, “Right here.”

Nick was unsurprised when she took that as an excuse to slip into his lap, laying a quick kiss over his heart and wrapping her arms around him, though never losing her serious expression. His own arms were already taking their customary positions at her back and wrapped loosely at her hips. They'd both been a bit more... _tactile_ since New York, though they'd never exactly been shy about public displays before.

“We're not done discussing this.”

“Well, _duh_ ,” this time she outright rolled her eyes at him. “But if we're gonna make with the heavy, I'm going to at least be comfortable. Would it kill you to get a couch in here, or something?” she asked, pointedly inspecting the sparse furniture and nonexistent personal effects.

“Yes.”

Darcy gave an exaggerated sigh, but when she turned back to him she had her Serious Face on (and goddamnit, he was a grown ass man! If one of them was going to be corrupting the other with their habits, it should be _him_ influencing _her_ ) and was aiming its considerable power in his direction.

“In regards to your _dubious_ and _likely deficient_ sanity,” she began, “I have to point out that first off, you're going to worry about me no matter _where_ or _who_ I work with, so wouldn't you rather have me around _agents_ who you _know_ are trained to deal with whatever twisted scenarios you've conjured up?”

He grumbled and dropped his face to rest against her shoulder.

“ _Secondly_ , I am _awesome._ ”

“...and?”

“That one didn't seem to need any further explanation.”

He nipped her, lightly, tightening his arms when she squeaked. “Go on.”

“Regarding our, um, _us_... Nicholas, if two years of long-distance marriage didn't make us throw in the towel, why would this? Plus, you really, _really_ need me. Like, _really_. Your cover stories? _Phil's_ cover stories? I mean, some of them are okay, but telling me that you were in _Bahrain_ that one time, or the thing with the meteorite in Kansas, of all places...”

Nick lifted his head and caught her eyes with his.

“I can _do this_. I _can_. And it's a good job, and it's a necessary one, and it's about as safe as I'll ever be.” She took his hand off her hip and twined their fingers, resting their joined hands over her still-flat stomach, “It's as safe as _we'll_ ever be. I get the whole worrying thing, really, I do.” She smiled wryly, “I worry about you all the damn time, Mr. Director-of-Crazies, but...”

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“You've got the job.”

He expected whooping, jumping, possibly screaming (thank goodness for sound-proofed offices), but what he got was a small smile of breathtaking sweetness that reminded him (yet again) that his wife was absolutely beautiful -

“Now that _that's_ settled, what say we break in your new digs?”

\- when she wasn't busy being incredibly sexy. Or awesome. Awesome worked, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter refers to a movie called "Secretary" in which there are naughty office shenanigans between Maggie Gyllenhaal and her boss.
> 
> No, I don't actually intend that Darcy be Fury's secretary. More like head of public relations/ media clean-up/ interoffice memo gal... something or other like that... I'll be more specific, later.


	3. Darcy is Early, Nick is Late, Phil Picks Up the Slack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Coulson met (Mrs.) Fury.

Phil was having a satisfactory day. He never called a workday “good” until he'd clocked out and could look back at it in its entirety. Thus far he hadn't had to kill anyone (metaphorically or literally), all of the agents he was assigned to handle appeared to have their duties well in hand, the copy/fax machine had been running smoothly since that morning, he had fresh coffee in his mug and there were no (imminent) crises on the horizon.

All in all, satisfactory... so far.

He went alert at the sound of a phone ringing from the Director's office. Fury had left for Mozambique only an hour ago, to oversee an exchange of prisoners (not one of _his_ agents, none of _his_ would be fool enough to get caught), and wasn't likely to be back for another few days. That meant that, for the duration, Phil was overseeing what duties couldn't be taken care of wirelessly.

Three short rings later, the call was forwarded to his desk.

“Coulson.”

“Um...hi?” The voice was young, female, and a bit breathless, “I'm looking for Nicho – um, Director Fury?”

“He's not available.”

“Not _availa_ \- ” her words cut off with a short grunt. “Where is he?”

“I'm not at liberty to divulge that information. Who is this and how did you get this number?”

“Do you - ” another pause, this time Phil could hear muffled panting. “Do you know when he'll be back?”

“I'm not at liberty to divulge that information. Who is this and how did you get this number?”

“Swear to god,” the girl – young woman? - muttered, “if he gave me the number to some automated answering directory, I am going to _kill him_.” There was a beep and then silence. Phil was left to assume that she'd attempted to dial out of the “answering service.” It wasn't the first time he'd been confused with a robot, it wouldn't be the last.

He sat back in his chair. Though odd, this wasn't yet the sort of anomaly that required the Director's attention. Phil shook his head and got back to his paperwork, well, _Nick's_ paperwork, but he wouldn't hold the other man's absence against him. There were some forms, some information, that it wasn't safe to put onto the internet, not even on SHIELD's server, though it was easily one of the most advanced, and almost certainly the most secure, in the world.

Five minutes later, the phone in Fury's office rang again. Three rings, then to Coulson's desk.

“Coulson.”

“Oh god, not - ” another grunt, this one followed by a gasp, “n-not _you_ again.” There was a deep sigh, “Okay, I know that you can't tell me where Nicholas _is_ , but can you _at least_ pass on a message? This is _important_.”

He frowned, “May I ask who's calling?”

“...um. Actually, no. If he hasn't told you, then he must have a good reason. Just tell him I said _Hab SoSlI' Quch!_ Can you repeat that, the pro _nunciation_ is important – _ah!_ ” She sounded like she was in pain, and judging by the previous call, it seemed to be getting worse. “Please, um, _Coulson_ , or really great AI, or whatever you are, please just get that through to him.”

“Hab soshlich kuch?” That didn't sound like any language he had ever heard.

“C-close e-enough. Just tell him that, from me, please?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“O-okay, and let him know that i-if I don't - _ah!_ \- hear anything in the next half hour, I'll just assume the w-wor _ssst_.”

“I – yes, ma'am.”

Phil stared at the phone after he hung up, then swiftly moved into Fury's office, dialing the emergency line.

“Fury.”

“I have a message for you sir, one moment, let me play it.” He pulled up the recording of the last call, all calls were recorded and stored for a week before those deemed unimportant were deleted, and played the it in its entirety. “This is the second call, sir, would you like me to play the first?”

“No.”

Phil sat straight up, spine completely rigid, he'd never heard that particular tone in the Director's voice before. Not in the middle of a firefight, not when he was debriefing a dying agent, not _ever_. “Director Fury?” he asked, trying to keep his rapidly-growing alarm out of his voice.

“I'm here.” Fury took a deep breath, “Coulson, no, _Phil_ , I need to ask a favor.”

…

Phil went to the door of a nice, but largely nondescript apartment building and took the elevator to the fourth floor, once there, he headed for apartment 414 and knocked, four times, before waiting. When the door opened, it revealed a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, heavily pregnant and bracing the small of her back with both hands while forcing out short, puffing breaths.

“Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam...?” he said cautiously.

Her face rapidly shifted between expressions: caution, surprise, anger, finally settling on resignation.

“You're Answering-Machine guy,” she said flatly.

“I prefer to go by 'Coulson.'”

She squinted at him, “Yeah, no, not gonna happen. What's your first name?”

“Phillip.”

“Phil? Well, _Phil_ , what – _exactly_ – are your instruction?”

“I am to take you to the nearest hospital and stay with you until Fury can get here.”

Her face fell, “He's really not gonna be able to get here in time?”

“I'm sorry, but it's highly unlikely. He was halfway to Africa when we spoke.”

She sighed heavily, an action that was arrested by a sudden, forcible exhale through her teeth as her belly visibly spasmed and her shoulders hunched in pain. Phil immediately reached out to take both her hands in his, repressing a small flinch when her grip proved to be far stronger than her frame advertised.

He braced her weight as she panted through the contraction, “Miss, we should really be getting you to the hospital.”

“It's _Mrs_ and no, _really?!_ ”

“Mrs?” he paused, frowning and rapidly flicking through his mental filing system for any and all operatives with heavily pregnant _spouses_. Up to now, he'd been working under the assumption that she was an asset of some sort, perhaps even one that Fury had personally cultivated. However, if she was married (and acknowledging that marriage verbally) she ought to have a spouse around _somewhere_. It was a puzzle, and he was coming up blank, which wasn't surprising. Few agents had families until they were 'promoted' to full-time desk jobs and none of the administrative personnel would have Fury's specific attention.

“He didn't _tell you?_ That _bastard_.”

“Fury told me that there was some need-to-know information regarding your situation, and that it was up to you whether or not I needed to know.” He didn't sigh, but he felt the impulse. Fury was frequently cryptic, but they'd been working together for _years_ and he trusted the Director to keep him in the loop on the important things.

“I'm Mrs. _Fury_.”

Phil's eyebrows shot to his hairline, “I wasn't aware that he had a son.”

She smiled wryly, “He doesn't.” She glanced from her stomach to him purposefully, “At least, not _yet_.”

He felt his jaw drop, and for the first time in god knew how long, Phillip J. Coulson was well and truly flabbergasted. “Let's... let's get you to the hospital.”

She smiled grimly, “To the painkillers, my good man!”

…

When Nicholas walked into his wife's hospital room, one borrowed (without permission) jet, a near-brush with international scandal, and seven hours later, it was to the sight of his wife, sleeping, and Phil Coulson sitting in the chair beside her, holding a lumpy bundle of blue cloth.

Phil looked absolutely wrecked: his jacket and tie were both gone, his shirt partially unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, dark circles under his eyes and the shadows of what would likely be some truly _spectacular_ bruises on both of his hands and wrists.

Nick catalogued this in a glance, then turned his eyes to the infant sleeping in the agent's arms. The baby was long, for an infant, at least twenty inches and robust-looking to boot. Sparse black hair decorated the top of the infant's head, contrasting well with its light brown skin.

Phil smiled tiredly, “He just fell asleep.”

“He?”

“You didn't know?”

“Darcy wanted to be surprised,” Nick said, never taking his eyes off of the boy, his _son_.

“Here,” without waiting for permission, or even for his boss to prepare, Phil arranged the infant in Nick's arms. “Support the head, and you should be fine.”

“I _know_ to support his head.”

“Just making sure, sir.”

Nick looked up at that, “I am, ah, sorry about all this.”

“What, exactly? Going on a mission while your wife is _heavily pregnant_ , leaving your _heavily pregnant_ wife to me to care for, or _not telling me_ about said _heavily pregnant_ spouse?”

“I would like to be _heavily sleeping_ , so would you keep it down?”

Both men immediately turned to the bed, where Darcy was watching them through bleary blue eyes.

“ _Some_ of us just pushed something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of... something _much smaller than a watermelon_. Some of us are also still under the effects of a lot of drugs, which might explain why I'm seeing three Phils and two Nicks right now.” She blinked at them, “Actually, why am I seeing _any_ Nicks right now? I thought you were in Mozambique?”

Nick shot a look at Phil, who was expressionless.

“She would make a very good interrogation officer, though her technique is...unorthodox.”

Darcy rolled her eyes, “Screaming at someone while _you're_ the one in pain isn't an interrogation technique.”

“It could be,” Phil said stubbornly, but Nick could see the twinkle in his eye and that the corner of Darcy's mouth was twitching with suppressed laughter. The two of them must have bonded over the span of the birthing experience. Nick was...not sure how to feel about that.

“I may have... _requisitioned_ a prototype to get here,” he admitted.

“Oh, sir, not the ST10...” Phil slumped at Nick's nod, “You're doing the paperwork on that one.”

“No more shop talk, especially while _someone_ doesn't have clearance.” Darcy turned to Nick and smiled, “I'm sorry you missed most of the fun - ” Phil snorted, Darcy ignored him ,“but I'm glad you're here now.”

He looked down at his son again, feeling wonder and love swell up inside of him, so strong he thought he might burst. He hadn't known what to expect from this, from such an inauspicious beginning, but this made it all worth it. He would not, could not regret his son.

“Have you named him yet?”

“Yep, Phil helped.”

Nick's head jerked up.

“I did nothing of the sort, in fact, I _objected_.”

Darcy smiled, too tired to actually muster a smirk, “I may have named the baby after the Man here, out of gratitude. In my defense, there were a _lot_ of drugs in my system at the time. The little man's name is Jack Patrick Fury.”

Nick mulled that one over in his mind for a moment before deciding he liked it, “How is that an homage to Phil?”

“His middle name starts with a 'J,' but he won't tell me what it is,” she spared a moment to glare mutinously at the man, he just smiled back at her. “...and there was _no way_ I was naming him 'Phil Fury,' so, Jack!”

“Named after two captains,” Nick observed, smiling just a little.

“ _Nerd_ ,” Darcy pronounced affectionately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerdy reference guide:
> 
> 1\. _Hab SoSlI' Quch!_ Klingon insult meaning: "Your mother has a smooth forehead!"  
>  2\. _Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam._ Klingon proverb meaning: "Today is a good day to die." Yes, all of Darcy and Nick's code phrases/words are in Klingon. Because it's _awesome_ , that's why!  
> 3\. "Phillip J. Coulson" - I'm not sure if he has a canonical middle name, but I couldn't resist the impulse to throw this Futurama/Simpsons/everything-under-the-sun reference in. Mostly it's Futurama, though. BECAUSE.  
> 4\. "ST10" - the name of the plane Fury, ahem, "requisitioned" is also the number of the next Star Trek movie.  
> 5\. "Jack Patrick" - I like the name Jack. Also, Jack: _Captain Jack Harkness_ ; Patrick: _Patrick Stewart_... because the Furys are scifi tv nerds, okay?  
>  6\. Coulson doesn't get the references because Coulson is a comic book geek. WHAT? He liked Captain America! Captain America was a comic book hero (in universe and out), so it's practically canonical!


	4. An Exchange of Mutually Beneficial Favors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Darcy _persuaded_ Nick to read bedtime stories to Clint. P1 of 2.

Darcy opens the door quietly, shuts it quietly, and heads towards the bedroom _quietly_.

The words, “He's asleep,” spoken softly, just as she passes the bathroom door, make her jump what feels like a mile.

“Don't _do_ that!” she whisper-shrieks. “You know I hate when you do that ninja-thing in the _house!_ And were you just – just _standing there_ , waiting for me in the bathroom, _in the dark_ , like the creepiest creeper that ever creeped?!”

Nick rolls his eyes at her, and only then does she hear the sound of running water.

“You better have washed your hands,” she mutters, wrapping her arms around him anyways.

He kisses her softly, just a simple press of lips that communicates _I missed you_ and _I'm tired_ and _I love you_. They have nonverbal communication down like _whoa_ , a mixed blessing considering how much _needs_ to be talked about in a household as unorthodox as theirs (and that's not even counting their jobs, their coworkers, or the hazards of _all of the everything_ ).

“I was kinda hoping I could tuck him in,” Darcy mutters, muffled by his chest. Nick Fury? Gives _excellent_ hugs.

“He wanted to stay up for you. He passed out around eleven.”

“Stupid coders kept me busy for _hours_ , seriously, how hard is it to ape Facebook? Zuckerberg made it when he was, like, _twenty_.” She shouldn't bitch, she's been pushing this project since her promotion, surprised at the support she's received, but _goddamnit_ , she wants it _done_. She's still excited about the morale boost it will inspire, still looking forward to unleashing her little pet on the unsuspecting-but-altogether-too-dour SHIELD agents, but the damn thing is _sapping her will to live_.

“Isn't he supposed to be a genius?”

“Shut up, your logic does not work on me. We're _SHIELD_ , we have geniuses by the truckload.”

He looks down at her, once-neat hair mussed – likely by frustration and her odd tendency to hoard pens in her hairdo – and sighs, made more tired by just _looking_ at her, “Come to bed?”

“God, _yes_ , please.”

Nick leads her towards their room, where he helps her with her jacket, skirt, and shoes, leaving her to figure the rest out on her own. They both know the other is too tired for any shenanigans, at this point all they want is each other's company. He slips her glasses into the case by the bed (instead of leaving them where she dropped them, on top of her jacket), and settles in beside her, rubbing her back gently.

“That feels _amazing_. Don't stop.”

He doesn't.

Ten minutes later, when Darcy feels like she's had all the tension of the last few _centuries_ massaged right out of her (people who know how to kill you with nothing more than a few presses of strategic pressure points are also, no pun intended, _killer masseurs_ ), she rolls over and fixes him with squinty eyes.

“What do you want?”

“What? A man can't try and make his wife feel better after a long day?”

“Nicholas.”

“...Nothing you'll object to.”

“...That's not saying much.”

He grins, and it does not (in spite of popular junior agent belief) reveal the metal substructure of his android frame, cause her to explode into fire, or incite the end of the world. “I may have made a bet. With Coulson.”

“Oh god,” she drops her head back into the pillow, so her next words are muffled, “those _always_ end poorly.”

“Involving Stark and Rogers,” he barrels on, ignoring her protests.

“Those two need to fuck and get it over with. Any crises in the Vegas area?”

“Darcy.”

“What? It worked for us!”

“Neither of them is capable of getting pregnant.”

“...You don't _know_ that. Tony might have some sort of a male-pregnancy-organ-kit stashed somewhere in his workshop, designed in a fit of drunkenness and therefore a secret to all save JARVIS, who _totally_ 'ships Stogers, you know he does.”

Nick blinks once, then says in his steadiest voice, “I am going to pretend that I didn't hear any of that.”

“Sure, whatever floats your boat, _you're gonna picture it now_ , in your darkest nightmares.” She lifts a hand, never raising her face from the pillow, and gestures for him to go on, muttering about the possible “Stoger babies” (though thankfully for Nick's sanity, such mutterings are rendered incomprehensible by the aforementioned pillow).

“ _And_ Rogers isn't capable of being drunk.”

“Which is a travesty, you should get on that.”

“Coulson doesn't think they'll get it together before Christmas, I disagree.”

Darcy finally lifted her head, “And you want me to, what, lock them in a closet?”

“Perhaps something a little more subtle.”

“We're SHIELD, sweetheart, 'subtle' isn't really our forte.”

“If you do this, with _some_ modicum of subtlety, I will agree to do any one thing you ask of me. Provided it isn't _too_ illegal, immoral, or depraved.”

She eyes him speculatively, “That gives me a lot of leeway, you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Darcy sticks out a hand, “Shake on it?”

He pulls her in for a kiss instead, by the time it ends she is on top of him, sprawled out bonelessly, and they're both more than a little out of breath. Darcy breaks away long enough to mutter, “Gimme a week,” and then they're back to business.

They're both a little late for work the next day.

Nobody calls them on it.

The Director is almost _smiling_ and Darcy is _whistling_. The agents step lightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I am sort of basing Nick's off-duty persona on Frozone from The Incredibles (voiced by Samuel L. Jackson) because someone - and please comment, because I can't remember who and the comment is deleted and I _want to give credit, darnit_ \- linked me to the "supersuit" argument and _omg_ it is _so_ Darcy/Nick.


	5. The Opportune Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two days later, Darcy stumbles onto the Opportune Moment. (Part2/3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how I feel about this one. Grrrrrr... oh well, I feel bad for not posting for a while (RL, health issues, it's been a fun summer, guys!) so here, and PLEASE let me know if it sucks. Seriously.

Two days later, Darcy stumbles onto the Opportune Moment.

She stands outside the kitchenette and watches Steve and Tony and the UST so palpable it's practically giving _her_ palpitations and she's not even the object or the...objecter? Whatever. She tilts her head to one side and braces her arm against the doorway, watching them watch each other.

They're arguing about something, and it – whatever it is – must be serious because they're being quiet and vicious instead of playful and loud. It's a thin line and all that, but the line is clearly made up of unused hormones in this case. Steve's teeth are grinding together and his fists are clenching and unclenching at his sides. Tony is gesturing wildly with his hands in spite of the fact that the two men are barely a foot away from each other. He still manages not to touch the Cap, which means he's in a lot more control than Darcy would like.

Steve looses a deep breath, she can see it from here, and lowers his head. When he lifts it, there's a look of such heartbreaking _concern_ and _frustration_ on his face that Darcy feels one hand lifting, involuntarily, as if to comfort him even though she's not a part of this conversation, not even _in_ the damn _room_. Tony is obviously not immune, either, as she can see him start to look contrite, leaning in, albeit unconsciously. Steve's eyes flick down for a quick second and the tension _changes_ just enough that Darcy thinks, for one wild, hopeful moment, that an intervention will be rendered unnecessary -

And then Steve is stepping back, muttering something about checking on Natasha, and both Darcy and Tony are left watching his (admittedly fine) behind walk out the door opposite the one she's lurking in.

Tony curses, softly, and slams his fist into the counter top, bracing himself on his fists with his head hanging low.

“Well,” Darcy says brightly, “ _I_ need a cigarette after that, and I don't even smoke!”

His shoulders go taught, then forcibly loose, but otherwise he doesn't react.

“Seriously, I have seen _porn_ with less passion than that argument.”

“Wasn't an argument,” Tony mutters.

“Oh, really? Because it looked like an argument. A conflict of the heated sort. Well, not _heated_ -heated. I mean, I hope if you two ever wise up and get _heated_ -heated, you'll head off for somewhere with less surveillance.” She wrinkles her nose in thought, “Okay, maybe too difficult. At least a locked door?”

He finally looks up at her, expression somewhere between annoyed and pissed off. “What do you _want_ , Darcy?” he asks flatly.

She cuts the bullshit, “I want you and Steve to stop pussyfooting around and get it together already!”

He snorts. “Then why are you talking to _me_ , huh? _I'm_ not the one _walking away_ ,” he gestures helpfully towards the door Steve so recently used, as if to remind her. Tony slumps into a seat at the counter, this time burying his face behind his hands.

Darcy grabs a bottle of rum and two glasses (not shot glasses, but you must make do) and settles across from him. He cracks his fingers enough to see what she's setting down. She's pretty sure that he could identify the clink of a bottle from fifty paces away, _and_ tell you how full it was, _and_ what kind of liquor.

“Is this a thing we're doing? The drinking-and-commiserating thing? Because I was not aware that our relationship extended that far. In fact, I'm pretty sure that Director Eyepatch banned you from all drinking-related activities that involved the Stark name. There was a memo.”

“Oh, Tony,” Darcy intones sorrowfully, making a mental note to check over Nicholas's 'secret' memos more carefully from now on, “drinking and commiserating has been associated with the 'Stark' name in the Fury household since before I even _was_ a Fury. Be thankful I'm inviting you into our highly-guarded and incredibly-awesome secret world.”

He squints at her, dropping one hand down to rest on the countertop (clutching the glass, but it's away from his face, so she's counting it as a win). “Is there a secret handshake?” he asks, almost as if he can't help himself.

“If I told you, I'd have to bury you.”

“Bury me?”

“Death is implicit,” she responds, smiling sweetly.

…

Two hours, a bottle of rum, six beers and a milkshake later, Darcy is staggering her way towards the weight room. JARVIS was keeping her pointed more-or-less in the right direction. And away from other agents. It would not be wise to be seen in this condition running around SHIELD, not even the parts that are nominally reserved for the upper echelons of the personnel and Avengers attaches.

Plus, if Nick sees her like this, or _hears_ about it, he will Not Be Pleased. There may be sighing, and questioning of his life choices involved, and it's not realy appropriate to try and sex him out of that funk (right now, in the middle of the work-day). Still, she's got a few hours, hours that she intends to spend fulfilling her end of the bargain.

So, operation 'Make Rogers and Stark Boink Like Bunnies' is still a go, even _if_ all that drinking just energized Tony (she is half-convinced that he is a particularly advanced robot that some snarky, TV-obsessed engineer based off of Bender), she's pretty sure he headed off to round up some pizza.

Even odds on whether or not he did so in the suit, or _the suit_.

She sort of stumbles into the weight room, catching herself against a punching bag by the door, which sways under her weight, which is _helping_ her current predicament, really, it is. Darcy shuts her eyes and focuses on breathing evenly, ignoring the sound of approaching footsteps until they're right beside her.

“Agent Fury?”

Darcy blinks, “Heeeeeeey, Cap,” and attaches herself to him instead of the punching bag, he's _way_ more solid, “just the person I was looking for!” She reaches up and pats him awkwardly on the cheek, “You're very reliable, you know that?”

“Ah, thank you, Agent Fury, but -”

“But you won't call me 'Darcy' and that makes me sad,” she throws in a pout, musters up some fake tears.

“No, no, don't cry Agen – Darcy! Darcy, please don't cry, the Director will kill me.”

“No, he won't, you're his _favorite_ ,” she informs him, whispering.

Steve winces and mumbles something about nothing saving him, but she's focused on her _purpose_.

“Steeeeeeve,” she says, “Steve. Stevie, Steve, Steve-Steve.”

“Yes?” he sighs.

Darcy gives him her most earnest expression, the one Bruce winces at and says makes him feel like he punted a kitten. Into the Grand Canyon. “Steve,” she says again, to make sure she has his attention, “why won't you have sex with Tony?”

Steve is staring at her, but he is suddenly further away, and Darcy is very confused. And her head hurts.

She squints up at him, “Did you just _drop me_ , soldier?”

He's babbling something at her, kneeling by her side, and _whoa_ she's vertical, so it's all good and she tells him so.

“It's okay, really. Wait, no, it's _not_ okay, because you won't kiss Tony. _Why_ won't you kiss Tony, Cap?” She throws a lip-tremble in with the tear-moistened eyes, “Don't you _like_ him? I think that he likes you,” back to the not-whispering, “and he doesn't think you like him, and it makes him _sad_.”

“I am very sorry that Tony is...sad,” he says haltingly, “but I don't think that my kissing him would help things.”

“Sure it would! Kissing always helps, just ask Nicky!”

Steve flinches, “I think I'd rather not, Darcy.”

“Well, alright, I guess you don't _have_ to. But you _do_ have to kiss Tony. Promise!”

He's staring at her intently, using all of his mighty tactical brain to give her a soul-searching look, like he's trying to reach into the back of her head and _pull out_ all the devious little thoughts hiding there. Little does he know that there's _nothing_ but devious thoughts in there, and none of them are hiding. It's the best camouflage _ever_.

“Alright,” Steve says, smiling his humor-the-drunk-person smile (it's really more of a humor the impaired person smile, because he uses it on everyone who's injured, pollen-ed, ray-ed, gassed, smoked, or in any other way physically or mentally incapacitated – their working lives are weird). “I promise to kiss Tony, at some point. Assuming you remember this conversation,” he amends.

“Okay,” she nods, then yawns sleepily. “Could you go get Nicky, I'm feelin' kind of sleepy.”

“Sure, Darce, sure.”

“Darce? I like that,” she smiles, and settles herself on the floor, curling into the (clean-smelling, thank god) towel that's draped over her shoulders and holding herself very, very still as Cap's footsteps recede in the direction of the door. Once she's sure he's gone, she sits up and then _jumps up_ at the presence of a smirking Natasha.

“That was masterfully done.”

“Seriously, _make some noise_ , I swear to _god_ that I am going to pester Tony into making me a bell-and-cat-collar gun, just see if I don't. You people are way too damn quiet,” she mutters, gathering the towel and herself and standing. It's but the work of a moment to fix her clothes and hair from 'tipsy' to 'presentable.'

“What makes you think that he won't realize he's been played.”

“Well, for starters, _someone's_ not going to tell him. Because you're not going to tell Clint.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

Darcy raises one in return, “If you tell Clint, then Nicholas finds out who hollowed out that hiding place in our bathroom wall. I mean, it's a cupboard now, and I like the extra space, but...”

The redhead goes expressionless. “It was Clint.”

“That's the story that I've been sticking to... but you never know, I could remember a few more details.”

Natasha gives her a small, approving smile.

Darcy rolls her eyes, “Yeah, yeah, I know, I learned from the best.”

The 'you' is unspoken, but implied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerdy reference guide:
> 
> 1\. "opportune moment" - PotC  
> 2\. Futurama robots run off alcohol. Honestly, I don't know how I haven't seen that connection before.

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline:
> 
> "My Mama Would Be So Ashamed" - two years before the events of _Thor_.
> 
> CH1 - undetermined time, post all movie canon (so, about three years after _Thor_ ).
> 
> CH2 - one month after the events in the Avengers. (COULSON LIVES, DAMNIT.)
> 
> CH3 - about 8.5 months after "My Mama."
> 
> CH4.3, CH4.6 - post CH2, pre CH1.


End file.
